"grownup" poems
nobody gets the cancer twice.
(a blues guitar riff)
blood in the stool
ain’t nobody’s fool,
whent to high school
did not graduate,
but know it wasn’t no thing I ate
scale greets me friendly like,
long lost buddy from yesterday morn,
‘let get right down to it,
let’s see how much less of you borne
leftover alive from the prior day’
spirit spit blood from my gums,
got me a woman, she’s way over town,
woman said I’m brushing with
too hard a brush, alright, alright,
make no fuss, she’s good to me
nobody’s fool whent to school,
though I did not graduate,
a mean riff is better than a
slow moving woman blues cry,
got the strings to do my screaming
doctor is a fan, name is Jimmy,
played music like last time round,
Jimmy-jamming, dancing in the waiting room,
“that cancer got kick, it’s gonna get ya,
think I told ya that about hunner times before”
‘nobody gets the cancer twice,’
an old wives tale for unlucky po’ somofabitches,
do you some tests, tell ya the specifics,
right now, lay, lay down them new tracks,
no quitting time less the good lord comes a-calling’
blues guitar makes a man
cry shiver scream and shake,
progressions licks and tricks,
so you can’t tell what’s making
a grownup man cry and laugh louder
bring me my medicine
bring me my guitar
all I know is how it makes me feel,
oh baby once a night it’s true,
nobody gets the cancer twice
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
When I'm a grownup,
I would like a home away from home.
A cabin, perhaps, isolated from the world,
where there would be a lake in my backyard.
Maybe I will also have a treehouse, or a hammock,
where I would read and watch my children play in the water.
Then we would roast marshmallows and make s'mores,
and catch fireflies in the bushes.
My husband would sing silly songs and play his guitar,
and make my children blush with fiery laughter.
When the kids would fall asleep in the bunks,
a cuddle would be awaiting in front of the fireplace.
Where we would watch sappy old movies,
and savor our salty popcorn and sweet milk chocolate.
Together, we would laugh and cry.
Together, we would have escaped the world.
Together, we would have been happy.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
As a child the frustration and aggravation we caused our parents counting down the days until Christmas or our Birthday.
And those afternoons in elementary school trying not to doze off while counting the minutes until the dismissal bell would ring.
The older I got the more I've counted my life away.
Count the years until 16 to be able to drive and be free.
Count the years until 21 to be able to drink and feel like a grownup.
Counting the months then years of the length of each relationship
Waiting to be wed.
Then counting the negative pregnancy tests over and over becoming hopeless that I would ever be able to count little toes and fingers.
Counting the tears that I shed for my husband, as the fairy tale family I dreamed of turned into a nightmare.
Counting the nights left alone, scared and waiting for him to return home.
Counting the minutes between each contraction.
Counting the moments before my miracle would arrive.
Then counting the staples in my belly where she had to be taken from my body so that we would survive.
Finally counting ten piggies and ten little fingers
Counting the hours and days daddy left us alone and scared in the hospital for him to party and drink.
Counting the paragraphs on the separation papers
Counting the steps to the court house
Counting the people watching as my romance and love was flushed away
Counting the almost endless nights praying for me and my baby
Counting her smiles, counting her wishes
Counting her Birthday's
Counting the moments I am blessed to be her mom
Counting the hours of work to be able to return home to her.
I will spend my lifetime counting.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Childhood memories of yore
Drift through my head
As I watch that old tree swing
Many a Summer ago
I would swing there as a child
But now I am a grownup woman
But my children swing there now
Lovingly I watch
That old tree swing
And memories fond
Fill my mind
Like the rustling breeze
Making that tree swing
Rock back and forth
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
My Mother is dead
And now as we fond children recall
How she loved to swing
Upon the tree swing
That is not there anymore
The tree was cut down yesterday
And the swing was destroyed
Vanishing with the swing
Are the happy golden memories
Of many happy days
Spent as children
Swinging upon the swing
That is now destroyed
Along with our Mother's
Childhood home
*~Marian~
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
*they say i'm strong but at the same time weak
i fight my things and i don't let it bring me down
but yet it hurts me and makes me sad
they say i'm pretty but still not good enough
i look good and do everything right
but i still fail in the end when they judge me
they say i'm mature but still so childish
i take responsibility like a grownup
but my childhood was stolen so i act like a child now*
(c.m.h)
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
A writer writes.
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.
A writer writes as a baby coohs.
A writer writes as a child plays.
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?
Many scarce words.
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?
Words in abundance.
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
I used to believe in Santa Claus
So jolly and red and so fat.
I was a big fan of Christmas
No holiday was as great as that.
Not Easter with those funny eggs
Not even Halloween with candy.
No, that thing about tons of presents
To me, that was fine and dandy.
And we even got two weeks off
Nobody had to go to school.
Then coming back with new clothes
That made me look so cool.
Nothing compared to Santa Claus
The flying reindeer, ** ** guy.
I used to try to stay awake
So I could see him flying by.
It was such a great reality
To know that dude was up there
In the frozen north pole air
Making stuff for kids everywhere.
That was the world I reveled in,
Where everyone celebrated.
I knew I was not the only one
Who sat by the tree and waited.
I don’t remember being confused
By the Santas in department stores.
Santa had lots of helpers, I knew,
And this guy was just one more.
I did have a problem with chimneys
And a bag that he could lift
That carried things for all us kids;
Every size and type of gift.
But kids have a way of helping folks
To maintain a pretty fantasy.
We just ignored things that didn’t fit.
We went about it very easily.
But one day, and I remember when
I got let in on the confidence game
And Santa Claus was quickly gone,
Never to come to our house again.
The sad thing is nothing can ever
Replace the joy I once felt.
Santa was not supposed to be
Like Frosty and too quickly melt.
So, I have to make do with having
The grownup toys I buy myself.
Oh, how I could use a flying sled
And the help of a brace of elf.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night
a grownup lullaby
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 8:54 PM UTC
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
The world is a giant trashcan
And I'm a dumpster diver trying to discover anything beautiful and white
And it wouldn't surprise me if I've already found it,
Covered in gum and hair and crumbs in the backseat of a gutted minivan
But I'm so busy judging the books with no cover
That I lost track of my little paper hearts that I used to give with a chocolate taped to the back
And sometimes I stare into this rotted wilderness and ask myself if I've stopped existing
Because the rearview mirrors are so grimy that I can't see my own reflection
And when I can't see if there's lettuce stuck in my teeth, I refrain from smiling just in case
So people stamp me into the category of grumpy, grownup girl
But for all I know,
We are all lost pearls from the necklace of the gods
(but I can't go back looking like this)
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
there is no new, only renewal:
the space between brain and mind
the harder shell a skulking humanizing container,
the neuronic heart cells,
brain stem and heart bloodstream
scented/stented,
deny the newness of no new claim
the tower of ourselves built on the babble
of old images and read readings,
songs in seconds recognized by just the first two notes,
the point is this when do you become a grownup,
when new is but renewal, with a hint, a pinch,
of a new insight maybe recognized
now, how will you know me new when your eyes
search the iron bank cellar, where,
by voice deep, by fuzzy photographs, what tissues will connect
when the new sight knows me from too many old poems/songs?
!when the babies gather round for lifting up, sky scratching,
when the old man grand father, carries three upon his back,
a nonpareil horsey ride,
when the doorbell rings
I’m older than now, you’ll say,
read your wild mercury back pages,
taking the grays of our mutually curly
Medusa locks as a renewal gift offering
that will someday
match mine!*
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
I sleep in my cardboard cottage
That is my current job.
I keep it neat and clean as I can
I am not a slob.
I have my own place staked out
Everyone knows it’s mine.
It keeps the wind off as I doze.
It isn’t perfect but it’s fine.
Part of my job these days is easy;
I set out a cup and sing.
It doesn’t make me a million
But it is something.
When the weather warrants it
I sleep in the park
In the bright warm sunshine;
Stay awake in the dark.
It seems the citizens and cops
All leave me alone
Even though they still talk to me
With condescending tone,
Tsking at my laziness in general
Give the charity buck
Or maybe a quarter when they see
Since I’m down on my luck.
There’s this guy Hay Soose
But he spells it Jesus.
He could spell it that way
If he so pleases
But that don’t keep him dry
Whenever it rains
And it doesn’t stave most of the
Deep arthritic pains
From sleeping under cardboard
As his only roof.
Watch him shiver in winter if
You want some proof.
People have gotten to know me
As I’m here every day.
Some of the even come by with
Nice words to say.
And, I am used to the noise here;
The horns and the noise
Of the workaday world of these folks;
These grownup girls and boys.
Some tell me to go find some work,
I don’t get mad and shout.
I understand they have some hostilities
They have yet to work out.
Some of my neighbors here in cardboard
Dwell here because they
Can’t seem to work life out for themselves
In any other way.
People fire them from any employment
Because they act weird.
Some refuse to bathe or maybe it is
They refuse to cut their beard.
As for me I have had enough of it all;
The rattle and the hum.
I know society has a lot to offer but
I already had some.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
Call my name,
see the ghost of the past I became.
Of this world, I am lost in the shadow
left to feed off the old war’s debris.
It’s too big for an innocent child
that is forced to grow up, don’t you see?
In the village, I walk unnoticed –
every grownup stares right through me.
On my tasks, I try to stay focused,
while the one thing I want is to scream.
Scream out loud at the people, the street
to be heard for a second, be seen.
In this world, do I even exist?
How, a child, would I even know this?
Call my name,
bring me back to the living, again.
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
The path strewn with hurdles and gravels
40 years is a long way to travel
Two souls sewn with love and peace
Two hearts dipped in bliss
Two minds not always in same strength
But determined within to walk the length.
40 years of building the nest
Patience and endurance put to hard test
Before one day the saplings become a tree
Heart upon heart two becomes three
Through fall and rise and sun downpour
Years flew as the three becomes four.
It's no easy work to raise a family
In all sadness live strong and happily
Blocks are thrown doubts are cast
Moments of life try to break the trust
But we didn't bow continued the thrive
A grownup family now, we number five.
Jul 20, 2024
Jul 20, 2024 at 9:55 PM UTC
3 hands
kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works
man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making
a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind
a mood changer with 100% effectiveness
newspapers- a safe *** condiment
think I'll reheat my coffee
<•>
my hand
she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure
so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-sucking a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me
<•>
the facement of your hands
dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a
defacement.
very little to be done to keep the hands couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you
<•>
2:53am
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
Age,
Has tale tell signs that show up in the mirror
Reminding us of things we’ve done
When I look into the mirror I still see my childhood self
I sit across from you and wonder
How 8 year old me
Knows such a mature, intelligent grownup
Who knew that fleeting moments gather at the end?
I smile
A genuinely happy smile and chuckle
I have no words to explain
How absurd life is
How funny time is
How we’re still standing
And until this very moment
I was that kid
Who returned a shy whisper across the aisle
Without a thought of the future
So I smile
A genuinely happy smile and chuckle
Because everything has changed
And nothing has
At the same time
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
I want to pick out wallpaper with you.
I want to laugh
While we're in the grocery store
Deciding what to make for dinner.
I want to fall asleep ten minutes into the movie
Wrapped in your arms
No makeup, no clothes, no worries.
It seems
Such a grownup way to want someone,
Such a different way to love.
But
I have been searching my whole life
For a way to exist in this world.
This ordinary, mundane world
This place I've done much to escape from and to
Dream
My way out of.
I remember once I wrote a poem
About how big things don't **** you,
Small things do.
I said people turn to ash as life wears them away
And crumble into their morning cereal.
The mundanities of life
Seemed killers to me.
But you...
You bring joy to every ordinary moment.
I already know the beauties of this world well.
I stop and make myself see them.
It is the dullness I've neglected, the little boring things--
I've never gotten to treasure ordinariness.
I've always had to slip past moments of silence like a shadow, hoping not to linger long enough to feel lonely.
You have opened up
Half the world for me.
You have given me the freedom to look forward to
Every shopping trip
Every chore
Every lazy Sunday.
Things that let my demons out before
Now I can treasure them,
Now you've let the sun in on them
And I don't know if you'll understand how incredible that is when you read this poem
But I can assure you
...It's the best.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
**The Marginal Difference
Tween Child And Adult**
awake Sunday stuff to do...
another unit of life decapsulated,
where one will compromise
with all those lofty
make believe dreamy would-be goals
that course thru the brain,
when sleepy morphs into
the to do list at the premier of today's
wacky wakey consciousness movie
and a poem forms on lips
that have not yet been
coffee'd
into adult responsibility
the list purview'd,
and you purvey,
foresee, attending,
bend back that pointer finger
looking right at ya guiltily
one and enough,
believe getting that one done,
will be
satisfyingly crossed off that
grownup
groaning
tatooed list
of the unavoidable
one will make the
marginal difference....
tween child and adult
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
always believe in Sunday
for Sunday believes in you.
though every dusty calendar
in the corners of your grownup mind
tell you
of the neverending flight of Otherday,
you know.
in your smallest smile
and in the smiles of others
lies this simple truth:
to your childheart,
it is ever Sunday.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
You, creature of
heaven.
Object of my
desire.
Soft voice,
rose lips.
Body shaped like
ocean.
Your curves: the waves.
In you
the storm and
the quiet.
Sunrise and
sunset.
Sunshine and
rain.
Childish and
grownup.
And all in one word:
W o m a n
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC
~for Vinnie Brown~
even your kindergarten crushes?
what burdens you seek to retain,
the edgy border of delicious and pain
is a raggedy cut line,
as lost lovings, rhymes with duality
Once upon a time,
a middle aged man
left the woman he married,
the one who drained and cruel reigned
over the destruction of his-dreams,
for one accidentally stumbled into,
the love who blurred his edges as well,
between forgotten happiness and
pain so awesome bad when she grew tired
of his life's complications,
she left him,
weeping on the corner of Broadway and 83rd Street
was that 20, 30 years ago?
a memory
from no matters land
but
the physical ache that marred the hearth in the chest for
months and months,
sent him to the doc who smiled sweetly
but gave him, had no, no relief for
busted grownup hearts
with normal EKG's
that remains a treasured affirmation to this day of
life's capacity to love that comes with
an ingrown danger
of never forgetting
did you know the French outlawed the use of the term
Mademoiselle in '12 (Mlle.)?
I loved that salutation,
calling my one true lovers
with the soft feminism of that address
and still do
and you want to recall
kindergarten crushes?
Mister Vinnie
possesses a lovely contradiction,
holding onto
lost lover sickness
that lives on in good love poems
this my new found poet,
is how that he, this aching heart,
fast approaching his shore line for one last return
and final departure
repays a sweet compliment,
from one who complements
anothe man's lovely's insane desire to
never forget any of it
~~~
reading Vinne Brown's poetry
https://hellopoetry.com/vinnie-brown/
and listening to Joni M.
at 3:09AM;
never wise,
but full of hindsight
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
heres what i ended the night with; an IM to my 1st born son and his 1st born son:
2 hours ago
Egad, Parker finally realized that
he doesn't remember Uncle Colton
so he asks about him.
He asked me if he is in heaven and
if he ever met him since he got to meet Great Grandma Hook and
she's in heaven now.
It isn't the first time we've talked about him by any means,
but nothing as grownup as that.
Wowza.
about an hour ago
i have come to believe that the 5 day duration
in which Colton's soul/essence/love
left his body and
Parker's soul/essence/love
was getting ready to join his body
inside Christina's big belly
(reinforcing the belief that you pick your parents lol)
that the two of them met in the middle,
had some transendental smile, fist bump and
wink to each other
in acknowledgement of ea other.
I think time is a human Earthy construct
so it makes sense for me to say that
in that period of time,
they did indeed have a celestial party getting jiggy with it
as only an entire Heaven filled group of soul/essence/love's are want to do...
my proof of such theory will only become more evident through the years as you will notice that Parker does indeed shake his groove thang
in the same style
as your brother Colton....
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
Thanks for the meatballs ma'
On a mission
Be back soon
Took a huge jump on my bike, not a moment too soon
Got struck by lightning and bit by a raccoon
Next thing I knew
I'd taken to the sky
Swept up in a bubble
Passed the Hubble
Made a wish
As I streaked across the sky
And landed on the moon
Found the moondust powdery
Heartbreakingly abandoned and alone
Felt it caress the palm of my hand
Smooth as purest silk
Gave it love
A home
Made it a part of my fingerprint
And as I did
Sprang this wonderfully innocent music
Harmonies of such clarity and void of lies
Brought tears of sadness to my young eyes
As I laid them on this blue marble that houses our skies
Still bleeding itself dry
Spinning faithfully on the blackboard of life
Such grace
This wonderfully complicated dance of life
Never asked for anything in return
Except maybe the answer to a burning question
Why all this grownup warmongering?
Why?
When in the midst of all this hate and terror
Every kid in the world is born
With a natural instinct
To play
To laugh
To explore
And to celebrate
The precious gift of their newborn life.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC